Perspectives
by in-a-mellow-tone
Summary: In the modern times, the Assassin Brotherhood is split between two factions. Fighting and Terror strikes the heart of any major city in the world. Two assassins from opposite factions meet up in an unlikely situation and hate each other until they find out something in common; they both want to unite the brotherhood under one banner. Can it be done or is it too radical of an idea?
1. Chapter 1 - The beginning

First, there was Altaïr, providing lessons of peace and reason to the Brotherhood based off of his experience with the apple and all its unnerving power. Next, the individualist; Ezio Auditore, who challenged the Brotherhood and sought to tell others of how they could be independent and choose their own paths. Connor then taught how to not let emotions rewrite facts. His father was a Templar, he was an Assassin, and as such he both loved and hated him. Arno would steer the Brotherhood away from political corruption, whilst the French Revolution continued to bring in waves of inequality for the citizens of came the Frye twins; the brash and impetuous Jacob, and Evie, full of knowledge and caution.

When Jacob Frye overran London with his vicarious gang called the Rooks the news spread throughout the greater part of Europe, North America, and Africa along with Asia. Assassins all around the world discussed of Frye and whether or not he was breaking the Creed and her tenants. It was a popular discussion amongst all ranks, skilled or unskilled. Some were passionate about it but others didn't bother themselves. But that's all it was: Discussion.

Then, the world broke out in a sudden war. Russia, Serbia, England, and France were against Germany and the Austro-Hungarian empire. Of course, Germany dominated with advanced weapons and technology. The Assassins had their hands full with missions from all countries on both sides. And yet there was still debate on the morality of the Creed and its tenants. Most of it referred to Jacob Frye and his course of action. However, it only amounted to a simple debate between allies, never deteriorating to anything more vicious than a group of friends looking too far beyond the surface.

Because we are human, some people took it too far and violently lived by their own interpretation of the Creed. Encouraging others to serve with them by their fanatic and radical thoughts, thus causing a split in the creed. Before long, people were dividing themselves into one sided factions and The Creed became one giant debate. No longer civil, Its foundations crumbled at the roots; What was once a friendly question had set fire and ravaged the creed, burning and scalding all her members. From the ashes, two factions would form; Two factions that would hold the key to the Creed becoming whole again.

One side called themselves "Trues." They believed that the original teaching of peace from Altaïr should be blindly followed. Focusing on mainly staying their blade from the flesh of the innocent. "Trues" lead peaceful lives and only killed when absolutely necessary. They were the second half to form after the world wars

.The other side called themselves "Realists." Those who lived and died by Ezio and his life teachings. How he told the Creed maxim, "Nothing is true, Everything is Permitted." They focused on never compromising the Brotherhood, Living lives that killed any authority figure coming their way. They saw this as the only way to a free society not limited by morality or law. They would never admit it but they were the ultimate cause for the split in the Creed.

A war against their own was about to start. Assassins of the same Creed would kill in broad daylight just because of an opinion. The eternal fight with the Templars and a free world now pushed off to the side. The first blood was quickly spilt in London. The tension became too much and a gang war was started at Whitechapel station when the two groups met and butted heads. It was a long battle with both skilled masters and clumsy apprentices. The two had many young and old souls that met an untimely and uncivil end only for a simple and controversial philosophy. The worst part of all that had come out of the bloodshed? Every single death was seen as honourable.

Many tenuous and long international council meetings would be held in the city of Vienna, Austria; the middle of Europe. Nothing was ever set to be accomplished as they too, fell into the jaws of debate and morality. The board itself was divided and lost to dogma. Because they failed to find a resolution, the bloody maxim fighting would continue until separate boroughs would be set up across the world and all its countries. The unethical fight for dominance never coming to a complete stop. If the great ancestors of the Creed could see what was happening they would weep, for this was not their vision of a grand society within the Brotherhood.

In more recent years, countries with large, diverse populations such as America or Canada would be split evenly between the two factions. Whilst more traditionally conservative countries like Israel and most Arab nations would have mostly "True" assassins and more liberal countries like Norway and France would have more "Realists." The hardest thing about being at war with Assassins is that they know how to kill.

Each side modified the Creed emblem to their tastes after suspected espionage on both standpoints. The "Trues" used the "A" frame of the original symbol with an "X" in the middle to symbolise unity. "Realists" used the same "A" frame with a circle in the middle but changed it to an anarchy symbol after the seventies to let the world know what they thought of a free world.

Come 2017, the Toronto police force knew better than to put themselves in Assassin last officer that framed the Assassins was killed the next day. Everybody knows of them but never talks about the Assassins. The police only vaguely mention them to keep the public happy but they would never be able to put an end to it. The Templars saw their chance and took it; taking over the police force and recruiting those angered by the constant gang wars. "Trues" and "Realists" are evenly matched in Toronto and are constantly in feudal a power struggle like many boroughs over the world.

The dusty corners and pristine building within the city weren't without some sort of gang affiliation. The Assassins that ran Toronto were simultaneously divided and assassins run the place together and separately. No matter where you go there will always be a remnant of a battle. A bloodstain, brown and crusty, or a shard of metal from a worn blade, shiny and dull. Both only serve as a reminder of the age-old battle that started with the Victorian assassin, Jacob Frye.

Blood is blood and will always be shed. The cause, however, can be changed.


	2. Chapter 2 - Encounters

The weary and dull factory held the stench of soot and sweat. Frantic strides resonated in the large concrete building as dust danced diligently in the listless air. An Assassin in a dim grey muscle shirt, black hoodie, blue jeans, and brown leather boots lurked around the steel rafters with the scent of raw metal hanging around her like a cheap perfume. Her dirty blonde hair was in a messy half ponytail with loose strands everywhere while strikingly azure eyes scanned her surroundings from the rim of her worn-in hood. Samaria's target was a very influential businessman with everything that wealth and power could buy. Her faction of Assassins believed in the condemnation of the death of men like him; men that had the power and ability to be corrupt and wicked to those that worked for them.

The posh and fairly round man almost waddled beneath Samaria. She would've already jumped down and killed him but the council insisted he died in his office for no spoken reason. That's where Sam was, creeping along the steel rafters of the building like a child doing training exercises. Usually, she was in and out, no questions asked. It might've been sloppy but at least Sam got the job done, and that's all the council usually cared about. But here she was, stalking this absurdly fat man as he crossed the boundary between a musky factory and a lavish office.

Sam dropped down from the sturdy metal rafters, just how a skilled Assassin as herself ought to, and landed on her targets back with laughable ease, the slight ruffle of clothing making hardly a sound to disrupt the cold air.

"What the hell?" The target yelped into the floor. Before he had the slightest chance to protest, however, her hidden blade sprung out and cut open his neck in one fluid line. Dark and thick blood started oozing and making a lazy, almost black, puddle around him. The blood splattered up slightly to coat Samaria's fingers a deep shade of wine red.

" _Passer de ce monde à l'autre_ *," Sam mumbled solemnly as she removed herself from the fresh corpse. Her French wasn't perfect but she picked up enough when studying Arno Dorian and his life in her spare time off of training.

While the Realists idolised Ezio to no end, Sam had gone out of her way to find a fresher role model to learn and gain motivation from. That was when she stumbled upon Arno Dorian in a weathered and dingy blue book on the edges of the common library. How it got there was a mystery to her but she read it nonetheless. Dorian was a French assassin during the French Revolution. He strayed the brotherhood away from politics and fanaticism while using them as a means to achieve his own personal redemption for being accused of killing his adoptive father. While it ultimately didn't work in the end, Sam found it inspiring how he had his own private life and didn't eat, sleep, and live the brotherhood. While Sam was quite literally born into it, she strived to only be a small part of it because, while she yearned for an independent life, she liked the security that the Brotherhood had to offer.

A place to stay was all hers if she stayed involved with the Brotherhood. It was an inexpensive rent to pay for basic luxuries; all she was charged with was certain loyalty. And, Sam got a reputable street status out of it. Nobody would dare challenge her for power because of the Assassins. All in all, it was an easy life for Samaria. The only problem was that they restricted her vital independence. That unwavering loyalty which was required of her meant all Sam could do is only what they told her to do and nothing more; no questions asked. When someone had lived eighteen years of a certain lifestyle, a little breathing room is desperately in order. Nonetheless, she stayed with her faction knowing full well that her parents would be ultimately devastated if she left. Samaria knew she wouldn't be able to deal with that kind of heartbreak.

The leisurely walk back to the underground base, that she comfortably and lovingly called home, was a careful maze of winding back alleys and slimy side streets. Even if Sam had a powerful influence over the city, she still had to be notoriously careful that nobody followed her, lest they wished to kill Sam for prestige. Close footsteps meant that it seemed as if somebody was trying to do exactly that. With one turn down a dead end and a great sigh of annoyance, she finally confronted the person that dared to follow her so audibly.

Sam swiftly turned around to notice a boy, no taller than her, with olive-skinned hands shoved in his grey jeans and a white hoodie that covered his eyes on her heels. "The jig is up," sneered Sam, "What do you want?"

"Who, me?" The punk had a very soft and sarcastic tone. His plump lips were barely a shade darker than his skin.

"Who else?" Sam gestured to the open air with her blood touched hands.

"Who says I'm anybody. Maybe I'm just a homeless man following you around for change." The boy cockily shifted his weight to his other hip. That's when Sam saw the stark red emblem of a True on the inner sleeve of his arm.

"You're a True. What do you want?" Her eyes filled with instinctive rage and fury. A well-practised stance taking place among her experienced body.

"Listen," The young boy explained rather sharply, "I was sent here by my mentor to try and find your base. I can leave now and I'll never speak of this." He was accepting defeat.

"So what? The second I challenge you, you turn away? Just like how a True should be, " Sam scoffed.

"I don't think you understand," His voice bit the air, "I was taught to fight just like you but I choose not to fight. I don't enjoy controversy, even if they are my enemy," He was backing away slowly, giving Samaria some room.

"What's your name?" Sam was still in a taut stance just in case this boy intended to fight. A strong breeze chilled Sam and pushed off both of their opposite coloured hoods rather violently.

"Adriel. Adriel Chan," His eyes were of Asian descent and were the deepest shade of a beautiful cognac. They held a mix of childlike innocence and wonder. Not at all like how Assassin would seem. Dark freckles spread all across his face imitating constellations in the night sky. His raven hair was messy and thick on the top of his head, just slightly covering his equally as thick eyebrows. "And yours?"

"Samaria Sparks."

Now that her hood was removed, Adriel could see that her thin dirty blonde hair was barely held back in a half ponytail just above her shoulders with flyaways blowing everywhere in the slight breeze. Her Azure eyes were trained like a hawk, taking in every detail with just a small movement of the muscles behind them. A scar slightly presented itself on her right cheekbone showing off a fight of her own struggle on the already ghostly pale skin dotted with light acne.

The cooling air was stagnant with the scent of alcohol and wet concrete while the two were sizing each other up in a tense stillness. When Sam finished assessing Adriel, she snapped her dark grey hood back up with a flick of her wrist, careful not to trigger the hidden blade, and sprinted past the curious boy back to her home base; never once giving the briefest thought on how this seemingly small encounter would change her life as she knew it.

*Pass from this world to the next


	3. Chapter 3 - One side of a coin

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An old abandoned warehouse sat in between the Entertainment District and High Park. Red brick outside was smeared with dirt and vandalized with graffiti. The entrance to the headquarters of the Realists was only through the damaged front door. Anybody could walk in, sure, but only those that knew about the Creed would be brave enough to jump down the multiple story hole into a wide and strongly reinforced net. It was a daunting task every time for Sam but the sooner she jumped, the sooner it'd be over.

The first time she had to learn to get back in by herself, her parents literally pushed Sam over the edge as they yelled to Sam to keep her back first, and to trust in the creed. However, Sam's ingrained fight or flight response caused her to perform a graceful belly flop.. After that, she learned her painful lesson. Even if it was ten years after the incident, it always gave Sam the chills just thinking about the pain of belly-flopping into a net while expecting there to be a slab of concrete.

The wind rushed Sam's dirty blonde hair up past her face as she turned to her back as her azure eyes naturally closed. Butterflies in her stomach told her to flail but her trained mind told her to do the opposite, to stay straight and silent. She only made a slight peep as the net hit her like a pound of bricks, it always came sooner than Sam expected it to. After regaining her balance, Sam got out of the net and made the short walk to the entrance shakily where she was greeted by none other than her mentor.

Shane was a man in his forties with a round face, grey eyes, kind glasses, dark hair, and a body that would be attributed to your typical neighbourhood barbeque dad. His voice was usually kind and fatherly towards Sam like she was his own daughter. He wore a pullover hoodie from Old Army and loose bleached jeans with a pair of Old Balance runners. If Sam was a regular person, she wouldn't've suspected Shane to be a seasoned killer. Just like Sam, he, too, was born into the Realist faction. It was his grandfather that was part of the first generation of the Realists post-World War Two after he moved from Germany to Canada to escape the widespread hate and oppression of his heritage.

"Has he passed?" Shane started walking into the main room when he saw Samaria. His question sounded more like an interrogator asking than an actual father.

"Hello to you too," Samaria retorted while shaking from the chilly wind.

"Did you do as the council asked?" His hands were clad behind his back like he was some sort of wise man.

"When haven't I?" Shane shot Sam a concerning look, "But, yes, he passed in his office. However," Shane stopped beside Sam just short of the mess hall, "why did he have to die in his office?"

"Sam," Shane starts before being cut off.

"I know, I know, -" Sam waved her hands around in the air mockingly - " 'It's not our place to question the council, only to carry out their wishes.' But for once I wish you'd just tell me why?"

"I wish I could say, but you know that we must trust the council," Shane sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. This wasn't the first time Sam had questioned the creed and Shane sensed it wouldn't be the last.

Sam just walked on into the crowded area. A dull roar of her brothers and sisters was like music to her ears. The small metal tables were all packed with people either sitting down or standing around them. Drinks lined every surface ranging from water to juice, to beer. The mix of familiar scents creating a homely sense around the teen.

Off to the left side of the room was a long hallway that divided into the training room and classrooms. The building was quite large, however, it only housed two hundred and fifty members. Deciding to keep their numbers low, as this was the only headquarters for the Realists, they only limited themselves to two hundred and fifty people at a time.

In the middle of the mess hall was a caged stair spiral that was wide enough for two people that lead to the quieter upper floors.

Sam climbed the steps, stopping to talk to one or two people about their day, careful not to tell them of the True she ran into. If she did, they would outcast her for not killing Adriel, or actually fighting him, at least.

Halfway up, the stairs broke off to lead to a whole floor of single bedrooms and one room for co-ed showers, on the highest floor were the same bedrooms and showers but for more "Privileged" members. The rule was that if you hadn't died after three years of killing, then you had gained the privilege to sleep there.

Sam decided to go to her small room on the middle floor. In it was a beige tiled floor, a metal desk with a laptop and a desk chair with a blue cushion, a closet for all her clothes, a metal bed frame that housed the desk underneath it, and beige covers for the bed. It might've seemed barbaric and tiny to some, but to Sam, it was all she'd known after her first kill.

She slowly climbed the ladder attached to the bed frame only to flop on top of the bed with the grace of a tired killer. Sounds of people passing faintly echoed in the hallway. A million thoughts were in her mind about today, she couldn't have her typical nap. Instead, Sam decided to go back down and get dinner.

The whole way down the staircase she saw that most people had left the mess hall. There was still some noise from people drinking and playing cards but her stomach wasn't terribly hungry for food. Sam still walked towards the meal line to get something in her body. They typically limited how much a person got because to them, a fat Assassin is a dead Assassin. Sam had gotten used to it, but when she was a younger teenager she had to sneak in more food just to cure her hunger pains.

Carrying her plate delicately back to a small metal table with four chairs around it, she sat down just before her two friends joined her.

"How was your mission? You're back so soon," Dimitri, a small, seventeen-year-old, boy spoke up as he gently placed his utensils down before sitting in the chair delicately across from Samaria. His brown hair was cropped short to his head while his ice-blue eyes looked up at her slowly, almost as if there was a vision right in front of him and he didn't want to disturb it.

"Silly," teased Athena as she sat on Sam's right side, placing her food just as harshly as she sat down, "She usually takes a nap after her missions."

Athena was a slender but tall girl that was the same age as Sam. If Athena was a regular person, she would be put into some prestige dance class immediately. Her grace and balance was stunning and matched up by perfect hair that was dyed into a pastel pink that faded into white. Sam sometimes thought Athena was a mermaid in her past life, if only she wasn't so rough sometimes.

"In any case," Dimitri looked up from his pasta at Athena before looking back at Sam with a noodle still on the stainless steel fork, "How'd it go? Who'd you kill?" His voice was almost ecstatic with the prospect of talking about killing.

"Be a little sensitive, Dimitri, you don't know how hard it can be to kill," Athena scolded.

"It's okay," Sam raised her hand to calm down Athena. If Sam didn't calm her down, her temper raged like fire, "I don't mind. It was okay, the council didn't give me a reason for this one, however. But the best part -" Sam leaned in towards Dimitri -"Was how fat he was."

Dimitri stared at Sam and slowly chewed his food. He always loved all details from others because he wasn't old enough to kill yet. One more training year, and he'd have his first blood.

"Are you not hungry?" Athena pointed at Sam's food with her fork and the last bit of her own food in her mouth, "I'll eat it."

"Yeah," Sam pushed her plate slowly towards Athena, "Okay."

Without another word, Sam slowly got up to leave and go to bed.

"Goodnight," Sam mumbled as she passed by Athena and Dimitri. Her two friends waved to her and talked to each other with no ounce of worry for Samaria.

The small bedroom had the same harsh and unnatural glow as usual when she turned on the light. After she closed the heavy door, she changed into a pair of red sweats and a black tank top. Her muscles started to ache with each movement and Sam knew that tomorrow would be worse. In her mind, she knew it was finally time for bed and Sam couldn't wait to sort out her thoughts tomorrow when she had the day off.


End file.
